


The Alphabet For Dummies

by An_Escaped_Rabbit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 04:59:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2375498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/An_Escaped_Rabbit/pseuds/An_Escaped_Rabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Does Mycroft know you're reading Reaper Man while kidnapping me?" In which John is kidnapped, John is kidnapped again, and John is kidnapped many more times. Or, how John learned Anthea's name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Alphabet For Dummies

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from my FFN account.
> 
> In my head, this takes place throughout the space between series one and two. It is assuming that some of the events of series three will be different.

John shrugged and slid into the long black car that had just pulled up at the curb. It had been a satisfying day and he was in a good mood. Recognizing the attractive woman staring intently at her phone, he asked, "Anthea?"

The woman - John took care not to mentally capitalize the words, that was saved for Irene Adler - continued gazing into the screen for a few moments before seeming to realize he had said something. She looked up. "Beatrice, actually," she told him.

John thought for a moment. "Is that your real name?" he asked.

Beatrice gave him the same amused look he had seen on her face the last time and shook her head.

* * *

Walking down the street, John noticed a long black car. As if on cue, it pulled over next to him. Wondering if this would be a regular occurrence, he slid in.

"I was just going to get milk, you know," he told the texting woman. "We're out _again_."

Anthea/Beatrice made a noise that could have been interpreted to mean practically anything. There was a comfortable silence before John spoke. "Beatrice, is it?"

The woman continued typing for a moment, and then, not tearing her eyes away from the screen, she remarked quite casually, "You are slightly slow, aren't you? Beatrice was last time. Today I'm Catherine."

John was shocked. He'd never heard her speak more than two words at a time.

* * *

Realizing this _would_ be a regular occurrence, Jon slid into the long black car. "What is it today?" he asked the intent woman, whom he'd privately dubbed the ABC Lady. "Diane? Daisy? Dorothy? Desdemona?"

The ABC Lady actually looked at him almost normally for a moment before she said, "Daphne, since you ask."

John grinned. "And that's not your real name, right?"

Daphne did not dignify that with a response.

* * *

John checked his watch before sliding into the long black car. Good, he had plenty of time; there was no rush. He skipped any pleasantries (wondering for an awful moment if Sherlock was rubbing off on him) and started firing at the ABC Lady right away. "Emily? Elizabeth? Esther? Euphemia? El-"

The ABC Lady cut him off. Looking as if she was holding back an amused smile, she told him, "Florence, actually. Mr. Holmes drugged you last time, when I was Eva."

John's meeting with Mycroft that day contained some very pointed questions.

* * *

John stepped outside and waited for the long black car. Several months ago, he had realized that Mycroft's kidnappings had quite a consistent schedule. Wednesday at two, Friday at seven, and Tuesday immediately after he left work, all arranged with neat two-week intervals. It was really quite amazing how well Mycroft tracked him. No matter if he left the surgery hours early or hours late, Mycroft's car would always be parked outside the building every fourth Tuesday. Which led John to wonder why exactly the car wasn't here today.

He stood there patiently for ten minutes until he noticed the car pull to a stop in the middle of the street. John calmly walked over and slid in. Before he could say anything, the ABC Lady (who had so far been Anthea, Beatrice, Catherine, Daphne, Eva, Gloria, Helen, Ingrid, Joyce, Kendra, Liberty, Magdalena, and Nicole) spoke up. "Sorry, the parking was bloody awful today. Oh, and it's Ophelia."

There was really nothing for John to say to this, especially seeing as Ophelia ignored him for the rest of the drive in favor of texting on her phone.

* * *

As John slid into the long black car, he noticed that the ABC Lady did not appear to be present. In her place sat someone who apparently wanted to cut out the middlema-woman.

John stared in shock and horror. Unable to contain himself, he blurted out, "Where's the ABC Lady?"

Mycroft Holmes looked at John Watson.

Mycroft Holmes continued looking at John Watson. John noticed with a certain satisfaction that he had reduced Sherlock's older brother to speechlessness.

Finally Mycroft seemed to recover and said, with all his usual smoothness, "My PA is on sick leave today, not that it concerns you. To the reason I summoned you..."

* * *

John nervously slid into the long black car, not knowing what he might find inside. To his relief, the ABC Lady was sitting in her usual seat. Unusual, though, was the fact that _she was not holding a phone_ , but was staring straight at John with trouble in her eyes.

Before she could say anything, John burst into conversation. "So, today is it P or Q?"

The cold look in the ABC Lady's eyes lessened only slightly."I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," she said stiffly. "My name, though, happens to be Philomena. "

John's shoulders relaxed, but Philomena wasn't done with him yet. "Incidentally," she continued calmly, "ABC Lady?"

* * *

John was quite relaxed as he slid into the long black car. He was quite certain the ABC Lady harbored no unfavorable feelings towards him. (He shuddered to think what might happen if she _did_. She _was_ the personal assistant of the British government, after all.) She had seemed to find the moniker amusing, though of course only showing this after letting John stew in terror for a while. John had just been thankful for his mother's patient toilet-training some decades ago.

Anyway, that wasn't important now. He was quite eager to find out what female name started with a Q.

* * *

John slid into the long black car, asking as he did so, "What's your name today?"

The ABC Lady absently replied, "Renée."

"Ah," said John. "I think, therefore I am?"

"I think you are referring to Descartes' statement, _cogito ergo sum,_ " Renée told him.

The conversation continued pleasantly for some time by means of not existing. Silence ruled as Renée texted furiously and John's mind wandered peacefully. After a while, the silence was interrupted by a piercing scream.

Renée continued screaming before shaking her phone for a minute and pressing buttons frantically. She looked up and, with the most distraught, despairing, and panic-filled expression john had ever seen, said numbly, "It's broken."

* * *

John slid into the long black car and was faced with the same sight he normally encountered upon entering Mycroft's car. The ABC Lady's face was illuminated by the glow of the phone upon which her attention was focused. The phone, however, seemed to have undergone several subtle changes in design since the last time John had seen it.

"So," John remarked. "Your name is?"

"Samira" she told him offhandedly.

John grinned and merrily continued. "You got a new phone, I see."

Samira glared at him.

* * *

John slid into the long black car, anticipating possible names for today. Q, X, Y, and Z were all letters he looked forward to eagerly, to see what the ABC Lady would come up with. Q had been Quoba and X had been Xylona. Today was Y. He turned to the ABC Lady expectantly.

"Ysabel," she told him.

John knew that name. "I'd never have taken you for a Discworld fan," he commented.

Ysabel shrugged, eyes still on her phone. "Terry Pratchett is a comic genius," she said, summing up John's view of the curious world Pratchett's stories inhabited. "Not that I would name myself after a character of his, of course. Don't be ridiculous."

John smirked. "Suuuure."

"Honestly," said Ysabel impatiently. "Surely I wouldn't name myself after Ysabel, I'd be Susan or, um, ..."

"Angua?," John asked."Esme? Magrat? Cheery? Agnes? Sally? Polly? Saccharissa? Adora Belle? Sybil?"

"Fangirl," Ysabel accused, eyes still concentrated firmly on her phone.

"Says the person who named herself Ysabel," John argued. Ysabel raised an eyebrow.

John didn't let that pass without a fight. In a swift movement, he reached out and grabbed Ysabel's phone from her. He scanned a few lines of text before it hit him. "Does Mycroft know you're reading _Reaper Man_ while kidnapping me?" he inquired.

* * *

John grinned broadly as he slid into the long black car. Today was Z! Today was the end of the alphabet! Today - nah, he couldn't think of anything else happening today.

Thoughts deflated, John turned to the ABC Lady and waited. "Zahra," she said eventually.

"What will it be next time?" John asked. "Anthea? Something else starting with an A? Or will you start a new pattern?" Zahra gave him a blank look. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," she told him. John felt a slight sensation of déjà vu.

* * *

That was Friday. 7 PM. John's next "appointment" was a week from Tuesday. John's next "appointment" never happened.

* * *

It was Monday when Sherlock fell. When Sherlock jumped. When Sherlock _died_.

Dead.

Dead.

Gone.

Everyone thought that Sherlock was a fraud. John knew that he wasn't. He couldn't have been. He was John's bloody best friend and John knew him better than anyone else. And John was angry. Angry at Sherlock for jumping off the roof of Bart's, for telling John it had all been a lie. Angry at the police for accusing him. The newspapers. The public. Mycroft. _Moriarty_.

And then the rage dissipated. _He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him_ , John typed into his blog. A painful apathy filled John. A foggy haze, filled with pictures and memories of Sherlock. He walked around, lived his life, not knowing what he was doing. Not caring what he was doing.

And slowly, slowly, time did what it always did. Over the weeks, the months, John healed. He still missed Sherlock and thinking about ... _it_ caused a dull ache in his heart, but he began to move, if not on, at least forward.

John worked long days at the surgery and slept long nights at a flat in North Gower street. (He had moved out of 221B when _it_ happened, unable to face the memories. Later on he was already settled in and didn't even think of moving back to Baker Street.) He cooked simple meals in his flat and walked in the park now and then after work. That's what he was doing when he bumped into the ABC Lady.

Hands in the pockets of his warm coat, gaze on the swirling snowflakes dancing their way out of the heavens, John failed to notice the young woman whose gaze in turn was concentrated firmly on her phone. The collision was spectacular. John's cane, which always gave him a sense of self defeat, went flying. So did the young woman's phone. John felt himself falling and instinctively pulled at the woman's sleeve, in turn pulling her off-balance.

There were a few disconcerting moments.

John and the woman sat up from the crumpled heap they had fallen in. John looked up just as the young woman did the same. To his surprise, the familiar features of the ABC Lady looked back at him. They looked at each other for a moment before simultaneously bursting into laughter.

John slowly stood up from the mattress of dirty snow. The ABC Lady did the same. "Er," said John awkwardly. "Hello."

"Hello," the ABC Lady agreed. The two stood together for a moment before John asked the nagging question.

"What's your name?"

John didn't know at all what to expect, but the ABC Lady's reply surprised him anyway. She tapped a finger against the back of her hand thoughtfully for a moment. "You know, I had not planned to meet anyone in a professional capacity today. I must admit, I had not planned a name out," she said in a puzzled tone. "I do apologize for the oversight. Let's see, how about -"

John cut her off. "How about, a, er, personal capacity? You could tell me your real name and we could, uh, go out for coffee...?" His voice trailed off. It was a stupid idea, he knew. Why would she agree? She certainty hadn't when he'd asked her the first time. To his surprise, though, the ABC Lady seemed to consider before nodding and telling John her name. Her _real_ name.

"How about the Criterion?" she suggested, and John agreed numbly.

Fifteen minutes later they were sitting on a park bench together, sipping scalding caffeine infused beverages and sharing funny stories. John could barely believe this was happening. The ABC Lady was being, well, open. _Talking_. And both of their mad grins grew wider by the minute.

Finally the coffee was gone and the paper containers duly recycled. John and the ABC Lady began walking to the park's exit.

John looked at the ground. At the snow. There was something he hadn't done in years and quite wanted to try. He wondered how it would go across. He didn't have to wonder for long, though, because at that moment, a cold, wet _thing_ hit his neck and exploded.

He looked at the grinning ABC Lady and shook his fist. "You won't get away that easily!" he declared, and he let years of childhood training guide him into producing the perfect missile.

The snowball hit the ABC Lady's cheek, but before John could gloat, two more came flying his way. John ducked the first only to go temporarily blind as the second hit him in the center of his face. That was it, John told himself. "Of course you know, this means war!" he yelled to the ABC Lady, automatically dropping to the ground to create more projectiles.

The ABC Lady laughed, and so did John, over the course of the ensuing battle. Snowballs flew, many hitting their targets and many more humorously hitting, well, anything. Both participants gave as good as they got and got as good as they gave.

Finally, exhausted and feeling almost frostbitten, John shaped some snow into a rectangular-ish shape and held it above his head. "I surrender!" he called, waving his makeshift white flag in the air. "Truce! Truce!"

One last perfectly shaped snowball hit him and the ABC Lady, smiling, said, "Truce. I accept your surrender." She extended an arm to him and the two once more began walking towards the road. John's cane lay abandoned yards away as he and Mary Morstan sauntered off, arms linked and anticipating the future.

**Author's Note:**

> There are a few really short scenes here, so I hope that was OK with you. I'd also love feedback on this. Was the writing okay? Did Anthea seem too OOC? I know I didn't really explore her motivations and thoughts. Maybe I could do that another time. What did you think of the ending? Constructive criticism (well, any review) would be appreciated. Oh, and I apologize for the Discworld stuff earlier. I couldn't resist it.
> 
> Thanks for reading and have a nice day!


End file.
